The taste that your lips allow
by Succi
Summary: It never ends well when Molly drinks too much (And she does not refer to the incident about urinating in the wardrobe) But this time things will be different, because she feels courageous and sexy. So she has a plan: Getting to Baker Street and seducing Sherlock Holmes. It's just, one has to explain a high functioning sociopath first that you're trying to seduce him. - Set in S3
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: This only exists, because CH made me do it.  
I thought I've already written drunken Sherlock ("Forwards or Backwards"), therefore Molly should get her fill as well ;-)  
The title is taken from the song below. **

**English is not my native tongue, so please bear with me. **

**Disclaimer: When Sherlock is bored he shoots the wall, when I'm bored I write a FF. Sherlock doesn't own the wall and I don't own **_**Sherlock**_**. We're even… I ****guess… **

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_Maybe tonight I'll call ya,  
after my blood turns into alcohol. – _Give me love by Ed Sheeran

Molly Hooper liked to have a drink – occasionally. She was not a drunk – not in the least. And she seldom drank more than she should, because it never ended well when Molly Hooper drank too much. (And she did not refer to the incident about urinating in the wardrobe.) No, it was that the alcohol lowered her inhibition, and she felt free to speak her mind and act on her feelings. And since Molly Hooper was a person who mostly kept her feelings and her opinions about others to herself, letting all this pent-up emotions free was often not only embarrassing for herself, but for other people involved as well. Therefore she preferred to only have one or two glasses of wine or beer and not more.

But this night she did not have any saying in how many glasses she could have, because her friend Carol had taken her out and insisted she needed to have at least the same amount of alcohol as her – and Carol could take a lot!

They were in a pub with live music, and Carol just raised her third glass for a toast, when Molly asked, "Why did I have to go out with you tonight? Is Phil out of town?"  
Phil was Carol's fiancé. And every time he went out of town for work, Carol called Molly to have a "girl's night out".  
Carol put her glass down, forgetting about the toast.  
"No. He's at home." She was talking quite loud to drown out the music when she went on to explain, "We need to celebrate."  
A smile formed on Molly's face, but was dropped more or less in the moment the conclusion what they were probably celebrating dawned on her. She reached across the small round table and snatched the glass of beer away from Carol. "You shouldn't drink when you're pregnant!"  
Her friend gave her a puzzled look which transformed into a laugh. She reached across the table as well and pulled back the beer towards her.  
"No sweetie, I'm not pregnant." She shook her head and continued to laugh as if that was the most ridiculous thing she'd ever heard. Molly pouted and took a sip of her beer. From her point of view it had been a logical assumption. Sherlock would have been proud of her. The second his name entered her mind, Molly scolded herself. She was not going to think about him tonight!

Carol had managed to stop laughing and reached a hand across the table to touch Molly's.  
"Sorry. I'm back on track again."  
Molly drew up her eyebrows. "You sure?"  
"Yes." Carol nodded and drew her hand back. She held up her glass again and announced solemnly, "We're celebrating the end of your engagement."  
"What?!" Molly's shocked expression made Carol's glass sink again.  
"We're celebrating the end of your engagement with Tom," Carol repeated, not sure if her friend had heard her over the loud music.  
Molly knew what Carol was thinking and elaborated, "I've heard you. I just don't know what there's to celebrate? I thought you liked Tom?"  
"I did." Carol shrugged. "He was... nice."  
Molly's eyes narrowed and Carol hastened to add, "Don't get me wrong, he was a really sweet guy, it was just... he was... too nice."  
"I didn't know there was such a thing as 'too nice'."  
"Well there is, and you know it, because otherwise you wouldn't have ended it," Carol said with triumph in her voice. She was having a point, and she knew it.  
In order not to have to say anything to that, Molly took a sip. Carol eyed her curiously. Molly put the glass back down.  
"Yes, Tom was nice, and I hurt him by breaking up with him, so there is nothing to celebrate."  
Carol would have none of that. "Of course there is."  
"Ta, and what exactly?" Molly's tone was challenging.  
"That you were strong enough to face the truth and admitted that Tom was not the right one for you and despite the social normative you've decided to be a woman in your 30s and single again."  
"I repeat myself: What is there to celebrate?" Molly took a large gulp of her beer. Carol was right: She was not getting younger, and if she ever wanted to have a husband and children, she should probably hurry. All of a sudden getting drunk felt like a real alternative...

Carol rolled her eyes, "Ok, now that may have come out a little different than what I meant."  
Molly tried to play it down, "No, it's ok. I know what you mean. My inner clock is ticking."  
Carol reached a hand across the table again. "That's exactly **not **what I mean! I mean we should celebrate that you were brave enough to do the right thing."  
"And accept my fate to become an old spinster." Molly couldn't keep the bitterness out of her voice.  
Carol groaned. "Now don't be a drama queen. You just haven't found your prince charming yet."  
For an instant Molly wanted to contradict Carol that she had already found him, although he was far away from being a prince, yet alone charming. He was more or less the antithesis to prince charming. But that was exactly what she wanted. And that was exactly what she could never have. Therefore she would not contradict her friend.  
Molly did not need to do it, because Carol knew her well enough to know her train of thoughts. "You're thinking about **him**, aren't you?" She was not accusing her. Her tone was more curious.  
Molly did not see the need to lie to her best friend. And let's be honest, she was a pretty bad liar. "Yes. I was just... never mind." She sighed deeply and looked into her half empty glass (she was definitely not in the mood to describe it as "half full").  
Carol's eyes spoke of empathy. "And you're sure there's no chance? You told me he has been different since he has been back."  
"At first I thought he was, and then... I mean... He let Mary's maid of honour believe that she was in a relationship with him. John told me he acted like a real boyfriend. When in reality he had only used her, just like that." She snapped her fingers. "What kind of person does that?"  
Carol shrugged. "Sherlock Holmes."  
Molly looked at her friend with so many questions in her eyes, and Carol knew that she could answer none of them. She did not know why Molly was in love with a self-diagnosed high functioning sociopath (Carol suspected he just liked the term better than having to say he had some form of Asperger's syndrome) or how she could get over him. She had hoped finding a decent man like Tom would help, but it had not – not in the long run.

Before Carol was starting to get frustrated with herself for not knowing what to say, two guys came over to their table.  
"Hello ladies!" said the brown haired one of them and stood next to Molly. He eyed her from head to toe and continued, "May I tell you that you look really... pretty." From the way he was staring at her, it was clear that he had wanted to say "sexy", but probably had thought the woman would find it too straight forward.  
Molly turned to look at him and then looked down at herself. She had to admit it was true: She was dressed rather sexy tonight. She wore a tight petrol top, a denim skirt and high heels. Molly may have been a small woman and she may not have long legs, but in this outfit she had nice legs – very nice legs indeed.  
She looked back up at the brown haired man. His eyes were the same colour as hers, and he looked expectantly at her. His friend (he had blond hair and blue eyes) stood beside him and was looking at Carol. Before Molly could say anything he went on, "My name is Mark and this is Fred." He pointed towards his friend, who nodded towards Carol and ignored Molly completely.  
"I'm Carol and this is Molly," Carol took over and smiled. Molly shot her a look that said, "Don't encourage them!" but her friend just smiled at her innocently.  
"Well, nice to meet you," Mark said and smiled as well.  
For the first time Fred spoke, "Can we get you something to drink?"  
Before Molly could decline, her friend spoke up again, "Two beers would be lovely, thank you." Molly's eyes narrowed when she looked at Carol who chose to ignore her and smiled sweetly at the young gentlemen.  
"We'll be back in a sec. Don't run away," Mark said and winked.  
"As if I could in those heels." Molly was only half joking. Mark smiled again, and then the two men went to the bar to get their drinks. Molly sighed deeply. She had the feeling that this was going to be a long night.

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Give me love: © Warner/Chappell Music, Inc., Sony/ATV Music Publishing LLC, Royalty Network


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: Thanks for the lovely response! **

**This one is too short, I know. But in my defence: There was no better way to cut it. And I promise the next one will be loooooong. **

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Molly had been right: It had been a long night, but it was far from being over. She was sitting in a cab, and she was drunk. It was not her thought – no, she meant: It was not her **fault**! (She had never realized before that those two words almost sounded the same...) It was the fault of Carol and those two guys. But mainly it was Carol's fault! She had been encouraging the men to get round after round and had them believe (especially Fred) she was willing to take him home tonight. Molly giggled as she was imagining Phil's face when Carol would enter their bedroom with another man in tow.  
The cabbie looked at her through the rear-view mirror. He was aware of her drunken state and worried a bit about his taxi. He had cleaned the interior the day before.  
Molly caught him staring, "Don't worry about your car. I don't feel sick."  
His face showed that he did not really believe her, but he reluctantly looked back straight ahead. But Molly caught him checking on her from time to time.

The expression Fred had worn when he had realized that Carol was definitely not going to ask him if he wanted "to come upstairs for a cup of coffee", had been one of utter disbelieve, and Molly had almost felt sorry for him. The pathologist could not understand how Fred could have honestly believed that he had a chance with Carol. Hadn't he seen the ring on her finger? Or had he plainly not cared? Granted, it had not been nice of Carol to lead him on like that. But that was the way her best friend was. She loved to flirt. Always had and always would. Unlike Molly, who always was a bit shy when talking to men. But as the hours had passed and Molly had had a few glasses of beer, she had started to flirt with Mark as well, who seemed to have enjoyed it. He had complimented her numerous times and she had liked it. Sure he only had said it to get her into bed, but still it had felt nice to be looked at in an approving way. And after some time she could actually believe that she was looking rather good and sexy tonight. That thought had elated her. She had felt strong and confident – and she was still feeling that way.

Then the inevitable moment had come when the men had wanted to leave – together with the women. Carol had taken the easy way out, had held up her left hand and had flashed the sparking ring right in Fred's face. That had been the moment when Molly had felt sorry for him. Since Molly did not have a ring anymore (she should have thought about keeping it for occasions like that before giving it back to Tom; but it was too late now), she had had to find another way out. Luckily she had been feeling tipsy and that had loosened her tongue. "I won't go home with you, Mark."  
For a second he had looked a bit shocked by her bluntness. But he had recovered quickly.  
"I see." They had shaken hands, which had stroked Molly as odd, but she had let it happen. Fred had nodded in her direction and then the men had walked away.

Carol had yawned, had told her she needed to go home to her fiancé and had hugged her. And while she had looked after the taxi driving Carol away and had still felt sexy and strong, a plan had formed inside her head.

The taxi stopped.  
"Here we are, Miss. 221B Baker Street." The cabbie turned around towards her. It took Molly a moment to find her purse in her bag, and when she handed the driver the money, she could see that he was glad to have her out of his car, before she really would feel sick.

She got out of the taxi. Well, she stumbled out of it. She was not used to wearing heels and she probably would have even stumbled when being sober. At least that was what she told herself. She blinked a few times, because the golden letters of 221B were dancing in front of her eyes in the light of the street lamps. She took a deep breath and tried to compose herself. She had only thought so far – more or less. She had no key to 221B obviously, and she could not ring the bell at 3a.m. She did not want to wake Mrs Hudson. At least she saw light behind the curtains on the first floor, which meant Sherlock was at home and probably still awake.

It took her a few minutes to come up with a solution to her problem. Finding her way through her alcohol muddled brain was not so easy. Finally she took out her phone and typed a message to the consulting detective.

I'M IN FRONT OF 221B. MH

The response was immediate.

WHY? SH

Molly chuckled. It was such a Sherlock-ian response. A laugh escaped her when she realized she had just used his name as an adjective. Determined to follow through with her plan, she typed boldly.

CAN I COME UPSTAIRS FOR A CUP OF COFFEE? MH

She would not admit that the moment she pressed the "send" button, her fingers shook ever so slightly.  
This time she had to wait a bit to get a response. And the waiting felt endless. What was he thinking about? Was he misinterpreting her words? Did he understand very well what she meant? Was that good? Was that bad? Was he thinking of a polite way to decline her request? No, Sherlock was hardly ever polite. He would just say no. So why was it taking him so long to type two letters? Why was it that the alcohol did not numb the pain in her heart when she thought he was going to send her away? Why had she not gone home with this Mark guy? He had seemed nice. Nice was good, wasn't it? Tom had been nice. Nice was boring. Was it wrong to think nice was boring? Why did she come here at all? What had she been thinking? Had she been thinking at all? And why was the pavement suddenly moving under her feet?

Her phone vibrated. A new text.

IF NEEDS MUST. SH


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: Thanks again for all your sweet reviews, alerts etc.! They've made me very happy.  
Now as promised a looooonger chapter ;-)**

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Molly was standing in front of the locked front door of 221B, waiting for the world's only consulting detective to come down and open the door for her. She was starting to feel cold and tried to remember if she had taken a jacket or a jumper with her when she had left her flat in the evening. She hoped not, because otherwise she would have forgotten it in the pub. Why hadn't she taken one with her? It would have been wise. Probably that was the reason: When did she ever do something wise? It was definitely not wise to stand in front of Sherlock's flat in the middle of the night when drunk.

While she rubbed her arms to get the goose bumps under control, she started to wonder if he might have forgotten about her, and just as she was about to call him, she heard the door being unlocked. She put the phone back into her bag and Sherlock stuck his head out. After recognizing her, he did not even spare her a second glance, turned around again and climbed up the stairs - expecting her to follow him - or not... He did not seem to particularly care.  
Molly drew a breath in order to sober herself up a bit. Not that she really thought it would help, but she could at least try, couldn't she? She entered 221B and closed the door behind her. While climbing the stairs, she was staggering and had to grip the handrail quite fiercely in order not to stumble. She cursed the high heels again.

Again Sherlock had left the door ajar, and was out of sight. He had already entered his flat. Slowly – as to disguise her drunken state as good as possible – she entered as well. She expected to find Sherlock either sitting in his chair, or standing by the window, but neither was the case. She was standing in the middle of the sitting room, when she heard some noise behind her. She turned around – imagining the skull on the mantelpiece winked at her – to find the consulting detective potter about in the kitchen which was the usual mess of Erlenmeyer flasks, mugs, more or less empty take away boxes and lab equipment. Sherlock opened one of the cupboards and retrieved a mug and a box.

Molly's brows knitted in confusion and she tried to keep her tone as steady as possible, when she asked, "What are you doing?"  
He did not bother to look at her, but opened the box.  
"You've said you wanted a cup of coffee."  
She sighed. "That's not what 'coming upstairs for a cup of coffee' means." She was glad she did not slur, but was not sure if she might not have wavered a bit.  
"But what else does it mean?" Only now did he turn to look at her, confusion written all over his face. She had to put her left hand over her mouth to keep herself from giggling. She thought he looked unbelievably adorable when baffled. It was a rare case to see him display his confusion so openly.

His expression changed, and he looked at her properly for the first time since she had entered the flat. And when Sherlock Holmes looked properly, it meant that he was deducing – picking you apart. Molly dropped her left hand to her side again, because she didn't feel like laughing anymore. She felt uncomfortable and small under his scrutinizing gaze. She would go so far as to say she felt naked under his stare. In a subconscious move to cover herself she crossed her arms over her chest. And now the floor seemed to start doing the same thing as the damn pavement: it was surging.  
"You are drunk," Sherlock stated, and his eyes narrowed disapprovingly.  
Molly cocked her head to the right and felt the alcohol surge through her veins, giving her a warm feeling.  
"You think?"  
Sherlock raised an eyebrow to answer her impudent comment. He looked at her and she kept staring right back. After it was clear that there wouldn't be a winner in this staring contest, Sherlock decided, "So no coffee then. But a glass of water will do you good."  
Molly shrugged and let her hands fall to her sides again. "If you think so."  
Sherlock turned around and went to the sink to fill a glass of water. After doing so he walked over to Molly and more or less shoved the glass into her hand.  
"Thanks," she said and stared at the object in her hand, as if it was a total alien thing.  
"Maybe you should sit down?" Sherlock suggested, gesturing to John's chair. Well, it was not really John's chair anymore, because he was not living here anymore, but there was no better way to label it. 'The chair that used to be John's' was so awfully long…  
When Molly made no attempt to move to sit, he added, "You seem a bit uncertain on your feet."  
"Do I?" She looked up confused from the glass in her hand. She shook her head, but regretted it instantly. All the furniture began to dance in front of her eyes. She closed them momentarily and said with false conviction, "I don't think so. I'm totally fine. Actually, I'm more than fine!" Her speech was slurred.  
Sherlock sighed deeply.  
"Mark said I was pretty," she explained as if that would prove that she was indeed feeling fine.  
"Who is Mark?"  
"The guy who wanted to take me home for **a cup of coffee**." She put extra emphasis on the last word and pointed a finger at the man whose flat the occupied at the moment.  
"I see." Sherlock shifted uncomfortably.  
Molly went on as if he hadn't said anything. "He complemented me a few times."  
"You mean he **complimented **you," he corrected her,  
"That's what I said! Pay attention!" she snapped.  
"You did not, you said..." but he stopped mid-sentence. It was useless arguing with a drunken Molly. And the look she was giving him, reminded him of that.  
"Mark said I looked sexy," she stated with pride and stood a little taller, swaying her hips seductively to one side.  
The consulting detective could not help himself but let his gaze travel from her head to toe. And he would have lied if he had said he did not like what he saw. She was wearing light make up that highlighted her eyes and the colour of lipstick suited her and made her lips seem bigger. (No worries, he was definitely not going to point that out to her!)The tight top hugged her slim figure in a flattering way and the colour matched her hair which cascaded in soft waves over her shoulders. The skirt was short, but not too short as to look cheap. And her legs... Since Molly was small, she did not have long legs, but she had nice legs. Very nice legs indeed in those high heels... Why had he never noticed her legs before?  
He shook his head to clear his thoughts and drew his hand though is curls in frustration. He had no idea what to do with her. He did not know how to behave in her presence most of the time since he had been back from the dead – and she had been sober then. But now with her in his flat, in her drunken state, he was a loss. He should have tried to put some sedative into her water, so that she would sleep. But the familiar John-voice in his head told him that it would be 'a bit not good' putting his friend to sleep by drugging her water.

While Sherlock had been lost in thoughts, Molly had started looking around in the flat. She looked behind the curtains, passed him, walked in the kitchen and had a look into the bathroom. She walked with more determination and less staggering than Sherlock would have given her credit for in her intoxicated state. Just before she was about to open the door to his bedroom, the consulting detective had come back from his troubling thoughts and he demanded to know, "What are you doing?"  
Molly turned around and put her hands on her hips. "Is she here?" she asked in a stentorian voice.  
"Who?"  
"Your girlfriend."  
"I don't have a girlfriend." Sherlock was confused. What was she talking about?  
She rolled her eyes and began to tap with her right foot. "I saw her. In the hospital and in the magazines."  
"You mean Janine."  
"The maid of honour."  
"She never really was my girlfriend."  
"Well, everyone, including her, was under the impression she was."  
He glared at her. "It was all for a case, and it's over."  
"So, she's not here?"  
His tone was annoyed, "No, why should she, if she's my ex-girlfriend?"  
"I thought she never was your girlfriend in the first place?"  
"What?" Now Sherlock was seriously confused. Following the logic of drunks was not his strongest suit – probably because drunks tended not to think logically.  
He let out a breath and kept himself from raking his hand through his hair again. If this would be going on for the rest of the night, he might start to tear them out. Drunken people were tedious! Had he been like that during the stag night? No way! Maybe it was a good thing that there were some blank spots in his memory about that night…

Molly seemed to let the topic of Janine drop, because her stance changed again. She took a sip of the water and stopped the tapping with her foot. She stared intently at him, and Sherlock did not like it at all. He was normally the one who did the staring! He was glad that she was not stuttering in his presence anymore (most of the time), and he had come to almost enjoy their conversations and her presence, but the way she was looking at him now made him feel exposed.

He needed to say something to make her stop looking at him. Then a previous conversation with her about excessive drinking of alcohol came to his mind and he asked with dread in his voice, "You're not going to urinate in my wardrobe, are you?"  
She huffed and then swayed her hips again and looked up at him thought her lashed with heavy eyes when she purred, "No, I've come here to seduce you."  
Sherlock quirked an eyebrow.  
She went back to standing in her normal way, and her shoulders slumped slightly. "I'm not behaving very sexy now, am I?"  
"No."  
Then her whole stance changed again. All playfulness had left her. Molly looked so hurt that Sherlock feared she would burst into tears, so he hastened to add, "But I'm pretty sure, you can be quite sexy if you want to be."  
The moment the words left his mouth, he wondered if he really meant them. He had not been thinking about what to say, he had just wanted to say something to keep her from crying. He hated crying people, and a crying Molly Hooper was a different matter altogether. At least with other people it was just annoying, because he did not feel the need to say or even do something to make them stop. But yet alone the thought of a crying Molly made him feel something akin to... panic. With dread he thought back to the last time his words had made her cry: that damn Christmas. Although his mind had been preoccupied with The woman, seeing Molly's tears had stopped all his thinking. He had known he had hurt her before, but until then it had never dawned on him how much his words really hurt her, how deep her feelings for him really ran. But then her tears had been proof of what a horrible person he could be. And he had felt so ashamed. And he would not let that happen again: He would not feel ashamed for hurting Molly Hoppers feelings again.

Sherlock blinked a few times to get rid of the irritating thoughts. The pathologist was not standing at his bedroom door anymore. She walked back into the sitting room again, passed him and finally she set herself down in John's chair, as he had suggested earlier. She put the glass of water on the small coffee table beside it. She crossed her legs and arms and wore an expression that looked somewhere between amused and challenging. It all went too fast for Sherlock. One moment, she had been playful, the next on the verge of tears and now she was being cheeky again? Could it be that she knew what his inner monologue had been all about? Sherlock narrowed his eyes to deduce if that was possible, when she took his worries anyway by challenging him, "List me three instances in which you've found me sexy."

His eyes widened fractionally. Granted, he had not expected that.  
But he would be damned to let her see that she had caught him off guard. Therefore he kept his voice deliberately flat when he asked, "And why should I do that?" He walked over to his chair and sat himself down as well.  
She leaned slightly forward. "Because you've said that I can be sexy, and I don't believe that you've thought about me being sexy once before. So, prove me wrong." She tried her best to make her challenge seem more demanding by looking him straight into the eyes. Still since her gaze was a bit unfocused due to the alcohol, it did not have the desired effect. But her face told Sherlock that she was dead serious and that she would not let the topic slide until he would either give her three examples or tell her she was right that he had never thought her sexy before. He was in a dilemma. He did not want to lie to her, but he did not want to tell her the truth all the same. It would make him seem... sentimental. The thought made him shudder. But then, she was so dunk that he figured she probably would not remember a thing in the morning. So he saw no other way out than to give her the truth, "When you got that determined look on the night before the fall, when you stabbed Tom with a folk at the wedding, and when you're concentrating really hard and biting your lip when doing an autopsy." He blurted it out so fast that Molly had to concentrate to understand it all. After ending his confession, he looked onto the floor, not daring to meet her eyes. He wished instantly she would not remember any of it tomorrow. Or did he? He felt slightly relieved after this revelation. For once he had not said something cruel to her, but something nice. And in a strange way it felt good. He did not know how she would react to his words, but he had not expected to hear her chuckle.  
"You find it sexy when I slice up dead people?! You are quite a sick man, Mr Holmes!" Her tone was light and teasing. That made him look up from the fascinating pattern of the rug.  
"You need talk: you're a masochist."  
"Why?" She cocked her head to the side looking interested.  
"Because you keep up with me and still care about me."  
She gawked at him, and he felt the air turn cold around him. His words had stunned the words right out of her. What did he mean by that? All of a sudden the conversation had taken a turn into dangerous waters nobody had wanted to enter.  
The consulting detective cleared his throat, as if to say something more, but the second he opened his mouth, he closed it again. He did not know what to say.  
Molly shifted uncomfortably in her seat, and now **she** was the one who admired the pattern of the rug beneath her feet. Her voice was so low, Sherlock had to strain his ears to hear her.  
"I can't help it. I've tried to stop lo... caring about you."  
She looked up and with horror he saw tears glistening in her eyes, threatening to fall. "You know I've tried, Sherlock." Her voice was almost pleading.  
To say he felt a little daunted in the face of it was a vast understatement. She looked utterly forlorn. She blinked and a tear started to make its way down her cheek. The image overpowered him. Something in his chest constricted and suddenly breathing became quite hard.

Molly did not know if Sherlock was really looking at her, because he seemed like in trance. His whole body was stiff, and he stared blankly ahead. She figured he did not even see her. He gripped the armrest so hard that his knuckles had turned white. She could not believe that she had just more or less confessed to Sherlock that she was still in love with him. What had she been thinking? She asked herself for the hundredths time this night. The answer was still the same: nothing. Because the alcohol made her talk instead of think.  
She buried her face in her hands. She had probably driven Sherlock away forever by what she had jut said. She had scared him with her confession. Of course she had. There were not many things in this world Sherlock Holmes was afraid of, but feelings were one of them, if not his greatest fear. She could not reverse what she had said, but she needed to say **something**. Molly wiped her eyes and looked at the statue that was Sherlock Holmes.  
"I'm sorry," she mumbled lugubriously, for lack of anything else to say.  
That brought him out of his stupor. He blinked at her rapidly a few times, before his eyes focused on her again. He took in the face of the woman in front of him. Molly was embarrassed and obviously trying to take back her words. He knew he should have been grateful for her attempt, but somehow it made him feel disappointed. He could not pinpoint why exactly. Therefore he decided to play along and reassure her, "It's okay. The alcohol lowers your inhibition. Even my self-control is effected when I'm inebriated."  
She let out a breath she had been holding and looked relieved, the worried lines on her face vanishing. She tried for humour to lighten the mood, "Does this mean you could actually say something remotely nice when drunk?"  
He cocked his head. "Possible."  
"Then I'd say you'll need a drink. Now."  
Sherlock laughed and Molly chimed in. It felt good.  
"I'd say you'd had enough to drink for the both of us." His tone was still light, but his face was serious. Molly looked down embarrassed and nestled with the hem of her skirt. She felt a distant pounding in the back of her skull, and she knew this was the forerunner of a bad headache to come.

Suddenly she got up abruptly and outstretched her hands to the sides for a moment, to keep from stumbling. Sherlock stood up as well with a look of concern on his face. He knew what she was going to say.  
Her gaze still on her skirt, Molly announced, validated Sherlock's suspicion, "I guess I should..."  
But Sherlock ended the sentence for her, "... go to bed."  
Molly's head snapped up at him incredulously. Did he mean what she thought he meant?  
To underline his statement he went to his bedroom while explaining, "The sheets are fresh and I'll put you something to wear on the bed. Not that I have any experience in that area, but I figure sleeping in a denim skirt is not very comfortable."  
He came out of the bedroom again with some clothes for himself in hand. He laid them down on the sofa and Molly followed him with her eyes.  
"There is a new toothbrush in the right cupboard above the mirror in the bathroom," he said as if that would settle everything.  
Molly could not follow up. "I... I can't stay here."  
Sherlock stopped arranging the blanket on the sofa. The frustration was clearly audible in his voice when he said, "Don't be overly difficult, Molly. Brush your teeth, change and get to bed. Or change first and then brush your teeth – whatever order you prefer. Just do us both the courtesy of sleeping it off."  
For a moment she looked like she was going to object, but then she glanced nervously in his direction and mumbled, "Alright. Thank you," took off her shoes, put them next to the door and went into the bathroom.

When Molly exited again, Sherlock was lying with his back towards her on the sofa, the blanket draped over his shoulders. The pathologist did not know if he was already asleep, but if not, he did not acknowledge her presence. Molly sighed, not knowing what to make of this whole drunken adventure, turned around reluctantly and entered Sherlock's bedroom. She did not even realize that she did not close the bedroom door properly.


	4. Chapter 4

**Thank you to all the guests who have reviewed and I can't PM back. (Welcome back, Ash!) **

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Something did not feel right. She had the unmistakable feeling that she was not alone in the room. Slowly she found her way out of sleep, because at first she was not sure if she was still dreaming, if she was still imagining it. But no, there was someone else in the room. She could hear him/her breathing. Her heart began to race and she tried her best, not to let the intruder know that she was already awake, until she had figured out what to do.

Had somebody broken into her flat? What time was it? Why hadn't she heard the lock being picked? And why did her head feel like a convention of drummers was taking place inside of it?

The room smelled peculiar – not like her bedroom at all, but familiar all the same. And the sheets felt odd as well. The pillow was way lower than usual, and the mattress seemed to be harder. While she tried to process all that in her aching head, she heard the rustling of clothes very close to her – too close. She stopped breathing.

"I know you are awake," an all too familiar baritone voice informed her.  
She dared to breathe again and opened her eyes slowly. She squinted, because even the little bit of light that shone through the curtains and told her that it was close to sunrise, felt like stings of needles in her eyes. When she finally focused on Sherlock Holmes sitting on the bed beside her, her heart could not decide to slow down, because he was no burglar, or to speed up, because it was **him**.

Then in a rush all the memories came flooding back to her. She was in Sherlock's bedroom. He had made her stay. She had been out with Carol, this Mark-guy had said she was sexy, she had felt sexy, she had been drunk, she had come to Baker Street, she had wanted to seduce Sherlock, it had gone totally wrong, she had confessed that she was still in love with him, ... She closed her eyes again, because she did not want to see his impassive face. It was too much to take right now. She buried her face, which was red from embarrassment, in the pillow.

She could not help but think that it would have been less embarrassing urinating in his wardrobe, than making that dreadful confession. She was never going to have a sip of alcohol again!

When Molly did not react to Sherlock's statement other than trying to hide her face from him, he said, "There's aspirin on the bedside table. I suspect you're having a bad headache."

Molly nodded into the pillow, wishing it would swallow her whole.  
"You should probably sleep a little more. It's still very early."

Since Sherlock did not show the slightest inclination to leave the room or even to get up, and the bed did not fulfil her wish and swallow her, Molly decided to look fear in the eye. Slowly she turned her head, opened her eyes again and dared to look at the consulting detective sitting beside her on the bed. He was still wearing the same clothes he had been wearing before she had gone to bed: a white shirt, black trousers and his blue dressing gown. She wondered if he had even changed at all. But what surprised her even more, was the look he was giving her. It was an odd mixture of frustration, concern, confusion and... something she could not quite place. If it would not have been Sherlock Holmes she would have said it was affection. But hence it was said man, she blamed the rest of the alcohol in her system for seeing things that could not be there.

To escape his captivating gaze, she glanced at the bedside table. There were a glass of water and a white pill – the aspirin. She had to smile on spite of herself – that was really thoughtful of Sherlock. While still keeping her gaze on the medicine she said, "Thanks."  
"No problem," he rasped.  
"Have you been here for long?"  
There was a small pause.  
"I thought I'd bring you an aspirin."  
It did not escape her notice that he had not answered her question. He was stalling. That made her look back at him. He was staring at some point behind her head on the headboard, which seemed to be awfully fascinating. She did not know why it mattered, but she wanted him to answer her question, so she tried again, "But when was that?"  
His face was as unreadable as ever, but he was belied by the way his fingers danced nervously over sheets next to her form.  
"Not long after you went to bed."  
Molly popped herself up on her elbow.  
"You left the door open," he said as way of explanation.  
"I can't remember," she answered truthfully.  
He looked away from the spot behind her head back into her face.  
"But you remember the rest?"  
Molly could not decide if he sounded uncertain, fearful, annoyed or even a bit hopeful. Her hammering head did not help in making the decision. She gulped. For a second she thought about lying, but she knew it was useless. This was Sherlock Holmes after all. He probably even knew now that she was considering it.  
Therefore she settled for the truth. "Yes, I remember the rest." She could feel her face going hot again.

"Good." He nodded.  
The perplexity showed on her face. She had no clue what that was supposed to mean. Did it mean good as in 'I see', as in 'not good at all', as in 'I'm glad you do', or...  
Molly felt a new wave of shame wash over her.  
"Sherlock, I'm really sorry, I..." But she could not finish, because he interrupted her, "You've said you've tried to stop caring about me."  
Her mouth felt dry and she felt a cold hand grabbing her heart and squeezing it. "Yes," she breathed.  
"Why?" There was an undercurrent of disappointment in his tone and that made the grip loosen slightly.  
"Well, because...," she hesitated and looked down self-consciously onto the sheets where his hands lay, the fingers still toying with the bed cloth, "because it hurts me." The last words were spoken so low, Sherlock could hardly hear them.  
"I am selfish," he stated with conviction, and Molly looked at his face again. He stared right back at her, his eyes swirling pools of emotions.  
He went on to explain, "I am selfish, because I don't want you to stop caring about me."  
She stared at him incredulously. Had he just said what she thought she had heard, and did he mean what she thought he meant? Could it be?  
She shook her head slowly. "I think I'm still drunk."  
Sherlock chuckled, sounding bewildered "I hate to admit it, but it worked, you know."  
If it was possible Molly got even more confused. "What did?"  
He lifted his hand off the sheets and reached forward to gently tuck a loose strand of hair behind her ear. "You have managed to seduce me, Molly Hooper."  
Her eyes widened on shock, and she could only watch perplexed as Sherlock's face came closer to hers, until she felt his lips on hers. Instantly she closed her eyes at the contact. It was soft – almost hesitant, and he pulled back all too soon.  
He leaned back slightly to gauge her reaction. Her face was flushed and he could not help the smile that tucked on his lips when she looked at him in utter wonderment. Molly caught the gleam of happiness that was shown in his eyes, and that made her bold and lean forward to kiss him again. This time it took him a moment to realize what was happening, but when he did, he let one hand travel in her hair and pulled her closer to him while the other snaked around her waist and he leaned over her. Molly sighed happily at his actions, let her hands do some travelling of her own and deepened the kiss.

So far it had never ended well when Molly Hooper had drunk too much, but this time it did.

**The End **

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**A/N: And once again all my love goes to you amazing people who continue to read, review, PM, alter, ... THANK YOU!  
Read you again soon - hopefully ;-)  
**


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